


cross over the river

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lane pinched the bridge of his nose. “I may have volunteered you for something.”</p>
<p>“<em>Lane</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, and pulled a chair over. “Come to England with me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	cross over the river

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildcard_47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/gifts).



> Title comes from the Kinks song Waterloo Sunset.

 

 

“Since we’re coming up on quarter end - since - _si_ -” Pete Campbell cut himself off with a wet sneeze, poorly muffled against his shirtsleeve. Whatever likely uninformed suggestion he had been about to make was lost in amongst the sniffling. He had depleted the box of most of its tissues.

Ken scuttled away from him, pushing his chair across the carpet. Everyone else had already abandoned ship. They were crowded about the far end of the table.

“I think,” said Lane, when it became clear that there was nothing else forthcoming, “that we can put a pin in that for now.”

Pete nodded, wheezing grotesquely as the room emptied, his disgusted coworkers careful to keep away from him. “Lane. About London -”

Lane held up a hand. “You can’t possibly think you can fly in this condition.”

“I have to,” said Pete. “Everyone else is busy. Ken isn’t even going to _be_ here.”

“Yes,” said Lane. “I know about Mr. Cosgrove’s holiday.” He would be in Hawaii for the next two weeks. Lane allowed himself to feel a slash of envy; he had been chained to his desk as of late and was beginning to forget what sunlight looked like.

Pete held a tissue to his face and blew his nose loudly. “And you obviously can’t go on your own. You aren’t in the right department, Lane.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Lane, coolly. Anger uncoiled inside him slowly. So there was the bottom of the issue, then; they thought he required a chaperone. “But you seem to be forgetting someone.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Harris, Pete. If she’s otherwise amenable and unengaged, I don’t see why she shouldn’t take your place.”

“Joan?” said Pete, screwing up his face. “She doesn’t have enough experience.”

“Then I suggest viewing this as an opportunity to get her some,” said Lane, and walked out of the room without looking back.

 

 

He tapped on Joan’s door only briefly before opening it; her secretary had already given him the all-clear.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as she looked up. She was wearing her reading glasses and there was a half-smoked cigarette sitting in an ashtray on her desk.

Lane pinched the bridge of his nose. “I may have volunteered you for something.”

“ _Lane_.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, and pulled a chair over. “Come to England with me.”

She leaned back, giving him a startled look. “What? You’re full of surprises today.”

“Pete’s ill,” said Lane. “You’re my only hope of not having to carry him about London. Not to mention falling prey to it myself.”

“Is he okay with this?” Joan asked, looking doubtful. She had a point. Pete vacillated between resenting her for her promotion and treating her as a kind of novelty act.

“I suppose he won’t go without a fight,” Lane admitted. Privately he wondered if she wasn’t much interested in going; she did have more than enough work here to do.

She picked up her cigarette and thought for a moment. When she met his eye again there was an impish light in her face. “I’d like to see London,” she said, “so let’s give him one.”

 

 

They arrived at the hotel hours late, delayed by uncertain weather conditions. The lobby was all done up with Christmas decorations though they were only part of the way through November. There was a large tree in the corner - one of those shiny aluminium ones - bedecked with coloured lights, and holly garland draped artfully around the edge of the reception desk and up the bannister of the staircase. Lane wasn’t much in the mood for such early holiday cheer and he suspected Joan felt the same. The flight had been even longer than it usually was. They could both do with a lie-down.

The young man at the desk was helpful but seemed a bit flustered. He kept flipping through the books and pushing his glasses up his nose, compulsively.

“Is there a problem?” Joan asked. She looked very tired, her hair in unusual disarray from the wind outside.

“Well,” said the young man, “Er, there’s - I can’t find -”

“Sorry?”

“There’s nothing for Joan Harris here,” he said with a wince. “Just - a Mr. and Mrs. Lane Pryce.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lane. “How did this happen?”

“We’ve had some staffing issues,” said the clerk, “and it’s been very busy - but, oh, of course that isn’t an excuse. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Joan. “Just book me another room.”

“Unfortunately -”

“You don’t have one,” Joan finished for him with an irritated sigh. “Nothing at all?”

“We have been very busy, as I said. I really do apologize.”

“We may be able to find another hotel,” said Lane. He rubbed at his tired, itchy eyes. The dry airplane air did him no favours.

“Honestly, Lane, I’d rather just take what they have. I don’t have the energy right now.” She turned back to the desk clerk. “There _are_ two beds?”

“Of course,” he reassured her. “And to make up for our mistake - free room service for your stay?”

“I’m fine with it if you are,” said Joan to Lane.

“I - well, yes, I suppose there’s no harm,” Lane said. He felt flustered - he hadn’t expected to be sleeping in the same room as Joan, for god’s sake. Suddenly he wished he had brought a better quality of pyjamas.

The porter came to get their bags and they followed him into the elevator. They got off on the sixth floor and he led them to their room. At least it wasn’t small, with large windows and tasteful decorations. The hotel _was_ a nice one, even if they couldn’t get a reservation right.

Joan stepped out of her shoes as soon as the porter left and walked across the carpet in her stocking feet. “It could be worse,” she said as she hung her coat up in the closet.

“They could have had no room at the inn at all,” Lane replied. “Is that what you meant?”

“No,” she said, dryly. “I meant you could be sharing a room with Pete right now.”

Lane did laugh at that. He could feel jet lag setting in already, and wondered if Joan would mind if he took a quick nap before they got something to eat.

Apparently she had the same idea; she was stretching out on the bed already on top of the blankets. “Sitting on a plane for that long makes me so groggy,” she said, closing her eyes. “I want to go over the files later, but I need sleep first.”

“You brought them with you?” he asked. It wasn’t really necessary. They’d talked strategy before they left.

“Of course,” she said. “I want to refresh my memory.”

“Always prepared, aren’t you?” he said, in honest admiration.

She smiled, her eyes still closed. “Always.”

 

 

Joan woke him a couple of hours later, after the sun was well set and the fairy lights coiled around the lampposts outside had been turned on. They twinkled blurrily at him through the window, which was clear and dry - it had stopped raining.

“I didn’t intend to sleep that long,” he said, sitting up and groping for his glasses on the nightstand. She handed them to him and he realised she had changed outfits. She was wearing dark trousers with a striped jumper, and a scarf wrapped around her hair.

“Going out?” he asked.

“I thought we could go get dinner,” she said. “Unless you’re set on room service.”

He blinked, still a little fuzzy-headed from being asleep. “Er, no - that sounds good. Give me few minutes to - well, get freshened up. You’ve got a head start on me.”

She smiled. “I take longer, so be grateful I got it out of the way.”

In the bathroom he splashed some water on his face and tried to straighten himself up as best he could. He hated flying back to England. It made him feel so oddly drained, not at all what he wanted before a big meeting.

Joan was putting on her coat when he came back out and she had taken his out of the closet and put it on the bed. “Lane?”

“Yes?”

“No fish and chips, please.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I would never. I was thinking of a curry, actually.”

“That sounds more interesting,” she said. “I’ve never had it.”

He picked a little hole in the wall not far from the hotel, not known to him but filled with the familiar smell of spices. He had eaten at places like this so often during Uni that he felt a little nostalgic about it. Certainly they’d never had food like this at home.

Joan flipped open her menu; he steered her away from the vindaloo and suggested a nice balti or korma.

“I have no idea what any of that means,” she said, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

She did drink a lot of water, he noticed, but seemed to enjoy her meal all the same.

They walked back to the hotel in the pleasant post-rain coolness, the aggravating wind from earlier having worn itself out. Lane thought idly about asking Joan if she would like to stop off someplace for a drink, but it was getting late and they still needed to go over the files in preparation for tomorrow.

He felt an uncomfortable crackle of nerves whenever he considered the meeting; it was with an old school friend - well not _friend_ , exactly - at Cadbury. He’d become quite a big shot since their schooldays, and it was only his fond remembrances of Lane that got them through the door in the first place.

He turned to Joan, eager for a distraction. “We’ll be done by two tomorrow afternoon, if not earlier.”

“Yes?”

“I thought we might, if you like, erm - go for a bit of a tour of the city.”

She looked surprised, though he didn’t know why. It was her idea, really - she had mentioned wanting to see London when he first brought up the possibility of the trip. Surely she didn’t think that he would bring her all this way just to abandon her in a strange city.

“I’d like that,” she said, and squeezed his arm warmly as they walked through the front doors of their hotel.

 

 

“ _Lane_ ,” said Theo, clasping him by the shoulders and beaming like a searchlight. “It’s been too long.”

He was just as effusive as Lane remembered, and just as big. Theo reminded him of a Saint Bernard that someone set loose on the populace without training it first.

Lane had been a year ahead of him in school and could recall a time when Theo was a scrap of a boy, always getting robbed of his lunch money and hiding in the toilets from the perpetrators. Then he had hit his growth spurt and gone on to football; Lane had gone on to chess club, and that had been it.

Over his shoulder Lane could feel Joan radiating amusement. Theo noticed as well and stepped around him to hold one of her delicate hands between his enormous palms.

“And who is this?” he asked, with obvious interest.

Lane rolled his eyes heavenward and interjected before Theo could cause an incident. “This is _Mrs_.Joan Harris, my colleague. Joan, this is Theodore Burbridge.”

“Charmed,” said Joan, looking very much as if it were true.

It sent an uncomfortable pang through Lane; but that wasn’t his business at all. Joan was separated from her husband and had been for some time. She could do as she liked.

It only got worse when Theo straightened up with a snap of his fingers. “I forgot to ask! How’s the Missus, and your boy?”

Lane stared; he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He hadn’t seen his son in over a year.

“They’re well,” said Joan, stepping smoothly into the gap in conversation. She took Lane’s briefcase from him and opened it with a neat click. “We have some mock-ups here, from our creative department. We thought you might like an example of our house style.”

“Glad to hear it,” Theo said, pulling open the door to the meeting room. “Now let’s see what the boss thinks of these, eh?” He waved the proofs around and went in ahead of them.

Lane didn’t follow; not right away. He looked at the tips of his shoes, newly shined, and tried to compose himself.

“He doesn’t know?” Joan asked.

Lane cleared his throat. “No. We’d lost touch.” Then he squared his shoulders - there was no use dwelling. He held the door open for her. “Shall we begin?”

She looked at him in a considering way and to his very great surprise leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

“For luck,” she said, and breezed past him with a smile.

 

 

After a late lunch - most of which they spent waiting in a queue for a quick sandwich - they tried to work out where to go first.

“There’s always the Tower,” said Lane, as he paid the vendor for their sandwiches and to-go cups of tea.

Joan wrinkled her nose slightly. “I’ve never understood the idea of that place as a tourist destination. Do people really want to go see some dusty old jail?”

“The Eye, then?” he asked, privately hoping she would say no. He didn’t have much of a stomach for heights.

“I was thinking the National Gallery,” she said, and raised her eyebrows when he gave her a quizzical look. “What did you think I wanted to do, go shopping? I like art.”

“Of course,” he said mildly, sensing that he had stepped on her toes somehow. “Anywhere else?”

“Well - it’s a little silly.”

“Oh, I doubt _that_.”

“The wax museum,” she said, “I’ve wanted to see it since I was a kid.”

He blinked. “I admit I’m surprised.”

“I never said we had to go,” she said, and if he didn’t know better he would think that was embarrassment he could see in her face. “It was just an idea.”

“No,” he said, quickly, “I don’t mind it at all. I’ve been a bit curious myself, ever since -”

“Since what?”

“Nigel wanted to go, the last time I was here with him,” Lane admitted. “Of course, he wanted to see the Chamber of Horrors. My wi - _Rebecca_ wouldn’t hear of it.”

“We can skip that part,” she said, and then continued gently, “but I can see how it would appeal to a young boy.”

They did, in fact, skip it; neither of them wanted to see whatever grotesqueries were contained therein.

Joan was interested in the royalty. As Lane had no preference himself, that was where they spent the most time - looking at figures in stiff gowns and enormous wigs. There was one that was a little bit haunting, Lane thought, a young woman laying back on a couch asleep with her chest moving up and down with the aid of some internal mechanism.

“She’s based on Madame Du Barry,” Joan said, leaning in close while tourists clicked their cameras around them. “Very old. About two hundred years, if I’m remembering it correctly.”

He had never thought of this place as having any real connection to history; it had always seemed like a tourist trap. But looking around at the models of people long gone it was different, a kind of museum. Like going to see dinosaur bones, or the robes of a monarch put behind glass.

They came to the piece that Lane suspected was Joan’s object in coming in the first place: the model of Marie Antoinette.

Joan was quiet for a few minutes. “It’s strange - she looks different than the paintings. I’ve always wondered how accurate they were.”

“She had a rough go of it, didn’t she?” asked Lane.

“I’ve always felt bad for her,” said Joan. “And her poor children - most of them died.”

“Odd way to deal with royalty,” said Lane, “but of course that happened in Russia as well. We just politicked ours.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was getting a mild headache from all the cameras going off.

“Why don’t we head out?” asked Joan. “We’ll have dinner somewhere nice and quiet.”

“Any preferences?”

“We’ve spent the day catering to my preferences. It’s your turn.”

He thought about it, considering and rejecting ideas. He had a few favourite pubs, here or there, but that wouldn’t do. And she’d said quiet -

“You know,” he said, landing upon the solution. “I know just the place.”

 

 

“It’s called Little Venice,” explained Lane to Joan. “Which I’m sure you could have guessed.”

She walked out to the edge of the water and looked out, over the canal and the buildings lined up alongside it. There were boats and water taxis bobbing along, being climbed into by visitors or tied in place waiting for their next fare. Right where they stood a large willow stretched its bare branches across a clear autumn sky. The sun was already sinking behind the buildings but her hair still shone brightly as she tilted her head, thoughtful.

He cleared his throat. “I understand it isn’t, well, _actual_ Venice -”

“Lane,” Joan interrupted, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He ducked his head, pleased. “I thought you would like it. But don’t thank me yet, we still have to find somewhere to have our meal.”

They ate in a cafe, sitting outside because Joan didn’t want to go in and miss the sunset. After they were finished Lane leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knee, and tried to work out how to ask her the question that had been at the back of his mind since they left Madame Tussaud's.

“Joan,” he said, “I hope you aren’t bothered by this, but -”

“Yes?” she asked, and something about the steady, expectant look on her face stopped him dead.

So much so that he floundered. “Well, it’s - would you mind terribly- if you had to fly back to New York on your own?”

She quirked her lips at him. “Are you moving back to England?”

He laughed, weakly. “No. I’ve decided to rent a car and drive out to Nigel’s school.”

“Good,” said Joan, in a matter of fact way. “I’d hoped you would do something like that.”

“You did?”

“You obviously miss him,” she said, and pushed her plate aside. “And I’m sure he’ll be glad to see his father.”

Lane wasn’t sure of that at all. He might be glad; he might be furious. But there was only one way to find out.

They went for a walk and found themselves on a bridge overlooking the canal, leaning against the railing. It was an excellent view of the crimson streaked sky and the glittering water below. Yet it was Joan that Lane couldn’t look away from. She had her chin propped up on her hand, lost in the beauty before her. Every bit the aesthete. Incongruously, Lane remembered how sweet she had looked in her comfortable pyjamas that morning, going over the room service menu with her hair messy around her shoulders and her glasses sliding down her nose.

“It’s very romantic, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Yes, very,” he said.

There was a beat of silence, and then she spoke again. “ _Lane_ ,” she said sharply, shooting him an exasperated look.

He looked back, baffled; he almost said _what_ , and then the realization hit him with the force of a train.

“Oh, you - you want,” he stammered, turning red and feeling every inch the fool. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t mind.” And with that she pulled him in for a kiss.

 

 

 


End file.
